


The Bird Whisperer of Quiet Isle

by Prairie_Garden_Girl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animals, Cat!Stranger, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Meet-Cute, Quiet Isle (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prairie_Garden_Girl/pseuds/Prairie_Garden_Girl
Summary: Sandor Clegane reflects on how his life has changed since moving to the Quiet Isle. (Modern AU)
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 54





	The Bird Whisperer of Quiet Isle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OrangeTabby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeTabby/gifts).



> This story is a quiet, introspective one, not much action...it was very much inspired by the real life Bird Whisperer of New Zealand (@swoopandmowgli on IG 🐦).
> 
> It's longish for a one-shot, so do get comfy if you decide to tackle it!
> 
> Rated Mature for language and some suggestiveness.
> 
> If you get out your magnifying glass, you might spot a wee bit of SanSan near the end 🔎😄 No smut though, sorry!! 🙈
> 
> Please take any "facts" re: animal rehabilitation, construction, search and rescue protocol, etc with a grain of salt! 😜
> 
> I'm sending this one out to the wonderful OrangeTabby, who I suspect is actually the president of the cat!Stranger Fan Club! 🐱🎉

The Bird Whisperer of Quiet Isle 

Sandor closed a big hand around his go-cup full of hot coffee and shuffled out onto the patio, the red-gold sunrise kissing his left shoulder. He crouched and plunked his bulk down on a big chunk of log that served as a stool. Stranger, Sandor's feline roommate, sauntered over and sat on the weathered concrete next to Sandor's feet. Together they quietly watched as ten pheasants (eight young and their parents) dabbled around in the garden for bugs and seeds and flapped at the morning dew.

Sandor had always liked animals. He'd liked them better than people, certainly. As a child, living on a farm in the Westerlands, he'd been around them all the time: horses, chickens, cats and dogs. He'd spent most of his adult life in King's Landing though, working long hours in commercial and residential construction; that lifestyle, and his cramped apartment, hadn't allowed him the opportunity to keep a pet.

Since moving to the Quiet Isle nearly two years ago however, it seemed as if the universe was making up for it. Now, animals came to Sandor whether he invited them or not. The same thing was true with friends. He'd never bothered seeking out companionship, and in the past, people had mostly left him alone. All that had changed too, and to his surprise, he was very much okay with it. Sitting on his log, watching the now juvenile pheasant chicks squabble over some juicy snails, Sandor reflected on the past couple of years….

***

_ Time for a Change _

Sandor's decision to move to the Quiet Isle had, admittedly, been somewhat spontaneous. The truth was, a couple of decades of nothing but working, eating, drinking and poor-quality sleep in the city had flown by in a blink, and what did he have to show for it? Well, a healthy savings account at least...he was pretty good with his money. But aside from his few weekend pub "buddies", he had no real attachments; no real  _ purpose _ , either. All that urban noise, all the people, and Sandor was as alone as he'd always been. No skin off his nose, really. People were annoying, relationships (from what he could tell) were burdensome. Suddenly, he'd had enough of King's Landing's stench, the incessant press of faceless crowds, the meaningless interactions. If I'm going to spend my life alone, he mused, I might as well go and be alone in a quieter place…

So one night, sitting by himself in his flat as usual (and after a few beers), Sandor had gone on the internet to search for skilled laborer job openings in rural Westeros. Builders were needed everywhere, not just in a booming metropolis. He ruled out the Westerlands, where he had grown up; too many bad memories. His search had yielded more results than expected, but one had stood out over all others:

***Builder wanted - residential***

Location - Quiet Isle

Seeking candidates skilled in a variety of residential construction disciplines, minimum of 10 years building experience, Red Seal tradesperson preferred but not a must, depending on experience 

Skill in woodworking i.e. framing/cabinetry an asset

Contact EB Lothston:  [ QIHomes@wmail ](mailto:QIHomes@wmail.co) .com

This sounded like it was right up his alley. While a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, Sandor's forte was woodwork. He had fired off an email detailing his work experience and training, along with the names and numbers of a few reliable references. He even remembered to text those references with a heads-up...Then, without waiting for a reply to his application, he began to research living accommodations on the Quiet Isle. He knew the small island was located on the River Trident near Saltpans. He'd never visited, but from what he'd heard, it was sparsely populated: mainly by pensioners. Perfect. 

On the Quiet Isle real estate website, there was a new sale listing:  _ Modest two-bedroom bungalow, good condition, all utilities functional. Steps away from the riverside. Furniture, garden fixtures, everything included. Owner deceased. Priced to sell. _

Priced to sell, that was a fucking understatement! What Sandor paid for a month's rent in King's Landing would make for a healthy deposit on this little waterfront cottage! Without even scrolling through the property photos, Sandor texted the realtor with an offer on the house.

***

_ A Roommate  _

A month later, Sandor had a new job, a new life, and a house without anyone living above or below him. Rolling off the ferry in his black Dodge pickup truck, the GPS directed him to the bungalow on Sand Grass Lane, Quiet Isle. Glancing around through the dusty windshield of his truck, he noted the lack of fences between neighbours on this street; however, the homes were well spaced. It probably wouldn't be a big deal. House keys in hand, clothing-laden duffel bag on his shoulder, Sandor entered his new home through the oaken front door. 

The first cursory inspection confirmed that the home was indeed furnished, in a minimalist sort of way: a plain wood table and chairs set in the kitchen, beds in the two small bedrooms, a couple of places to plant one's arse in the den...it would be sufficient for the present. Sandor walked through to the back of the house, finding a view of the water beyond the large patio doors. As he stood and appreciated the peaceful surroundings, there was a soft thump and a blur of motion to his right, followed by a raspy 'meow' near his feet. Sandor looked down and met the inquisitive gaze of a large and rumpled looking black cat.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" Sandor asked the cat. The cat flicked its tail and padded over to the patio doors, turning to stare at the big man with its glowing amber eyes. Sandor walked forward and slid open the door. "Good idea," he remarked. "Best be on your way, cat." 

But the cat didn't get on its way. Instead, it went right back into the room and hopped onto the fur-coated seat of an easy chair, curling up and drifting off into another cat nap as if it owned the place.

"Huh," Sandor grunted. He turned and walked out the open patio door, onto the concrete pad in the back garden. He stood thinking for a moment, then pulled out his phone and looked up the number for the realtor, a bloke named Thoros whom he had yet to meet in person. Every time Sandor had spoken to Thoros over the phone, he always sounded half-baked. As Sandor hit 'call', he spied his new next door neighbour out in his back garden, shirtless and engrossed in the task of trimming his shrubs with enormous shears that glinted in the sunlight. Sandor turned back toward the view of the river, not wanting to be nosy. 

Thoros picked up; Sandor identified himself and explained that upon taking possession of his home just a moment ago, he'd found a cat within and wondered what the fuck to do about it. In turn, Thoros welcomed Sandor to the island, and explained that the cat had lived with the previous owner and came with the property. Sandor protested that no mention had ever been made of a cat being included in the sale; Thoros declared that the listing had in fact stated that "everything" was included. In the midst of this baffling revelation, Sandor had turned again to glance at his topless neighbour, only to see the man standing there smiling at him, talking on his phone about the cat in Sandor's house. 

"Thoros?" Sandor asked both his phone and the man.

"That's me!" Thoros, the real estate agent, and apparently Sandor's neighbour, waved cheerfully.

Putting away his phone, Sandor had asked what the cat was called; Thoros couldn’t recall. Sandor had gone back inside the house and regarded the cat with resignation, but also a hint of pleasure. He'd always wanted a pet, hadn't he? Now he had one. A mysterious one without a name.

"Stranger it is," he said aloud. “I guess we’re roomies now, you and I.” The cat stood from its napping spot, stretched, then trilled musically as it leaped to the floor and trotted over to headbutt Sandor's leg.

***

His first day as a QI resident had been a busy one. After a thorough walk-through of his property and checking that his appliances functioned as expected, Sandor made the very short drive into town to do his grocery shopping. The main supermarket appeared to be a one-stop shop: it had food of course, liquor and tobacco products, as well as a generous selection of hypertension stockings and both denim and chino trousers in men's and ladies' styles. 

If Sandor had harbored any trepidation about how he would be received by the locals (taller and broader than most men, and with those nasty facial scars of his, he had always cut an intimidating figure), that was quickly dashed. A 60-something silver permed woman in crisp chinos rang through Sandor's load of groceries, chatting him up the whole time.

"Haven't seen you before," she commented while cheekily eyeballing Sandor's muscular upper body. "What brings you to our fair Isle?"

"Just moved in," Sandor rumbled. "Got work with QI Homes, start on Monday."

The woman nearly vibrated with excitement. "Oh, you're Lothston's new hire! By the Smith, welcome! I think you're going to like it here. Where are you living, son?" And before Sandor could open his mouth to answer, she launched into a long monologue of town gossip.

Sandor hadn't particularly wanted to hear about how old Aemon's sciatica had flared up and resulted in an urgent "clean up on aisle two", but he had listened politely nevertheless, thanking the cashier on his way out of the store once she'd finally stopped chirping. Fuck, he had been patient, not even too irritable - was the Quiet Isle having a calming effect on him already?!

That first weekend in his new home was spent getting settled: airing out the house, washing linens, stocking the pantry and fridge for both himself and Stranger...his initial confusion over how the cat had avoided starvation while the house had stood empty was cleared up when he realized there was a cat flap at the bottom of the front door, a detail he'd missed upon entry that first day. Clearly, Stranger was self-sufficient and capable of keeping himself fed without help. Sandor hoped that meant the cat would earn his room and board by keeping the house rodent-free; he also wondered if it meant he'd wasted his money on all that gourmet cat food. Still, he shared his dinner of baked trout with the feline. It wouldn't hurt to stay on his good side, Sandor reasoned.

***

_ Straight to Work _

On his first day of work, Sandor rose early, packed himself a hearty lunch to take along, and filled his tall go-cup with piping hot coffee brewed in his press, one of the few belongings he had kept from the city. He'd put on a very serviceable pair of carpenter trousers, a clean grey t-shirt and a tartan flannel to keep off the morning chill. On his way to his truck, he waved good morning to Thoros, who was outside smoking a joint and watering the garden in a flowery bathrobe that came to about mid-thigh. Sandor rubbed his eyes to erase that image, then punched a location into his phone's GPS. 

EB had said to meet him at today's jobsite, over on the northeast side of the island. Their client, a bloke named Dondarrion, would be there as well, helping with the build. A client wanting to be that hands-on was new to Sandor, but then he'd previously only been in the employ of large companies whose clients didn't typically like to get dirt under their nails. Sandor was curious; did this guy know what he was doing, or was he just going to be a damn nuisance? Sandor hated know-it-all pricks who just stood around constantly nitpicking and whinging and getting in the way.

EB Lothston, owner of QI Homes, was a builder of custom tiny houses, some of which were built to stay there on the island, while others were built in his shop but were destined for mainland locations. EB said that tiny houses were trending at the moment. He had a great, hard working crew in QI Homes, but increased client demand signalled a need to hire. Sandor likely wouldn't be the only new addition to the crew in the coming year, yet EB wanted to be conscientious about growing the company while still keeping the workload manageable. The tiny house trend might not last forever, EB said, and he didn't want to end up letting employees go when things inevitably slowed down...on the other hand, building was building. He believed they would always have work, no matter what.

Sandor arrived at the designated work site a few minutes ahead of time, but he spotted two other vehicles already there. As Sandor exited his truck, a stocky, sandy-haired man approached, his hand extended in welcome.

“Clegane?” The man asked, grabbing Sandor’s hand in a firm grip. Sandor nodded and returned the hearty handshake. “I’m EB, good to have you on board! Come over and meet the homeowner,” EB continued, clapping Sandor on the shoulder and leading him down the driveway. Sandor was beginning to notice that Quiet Islanders weren’t much for standing on ceremony. He liked that.

Sandor looked around the site. A concrete pad with roughed-in plumbing, the tiny house’s foundation, was sitting at the top of a long, grassy ridge facing east toward the river valley. Trees were sparse here, and it was a breezy spot, but it was sure to see some beautiful sunrises. On a trailer attached to one of the pickup trucks was the house itself, ready to be assembled onto its base; nearby, there was a work area with lumber, saws and other power tools awaiting the start of the work day. Another man appeared from behind a workbench, carrying a pair of smoking brass bowls toward the concrete pad, chanting and murmuring as he went.

“He’s just blessing the area,” EB explained nonchalantly. Sandor picked up the scent of burning incense then.

The homeowner deposited his brass bowls and came toward Sandor and EB, and Sandor really tried not to stare.

As someone who lived with very visible, heavy scarring, Sandor was experienced with people’s reactions to his appearance: they either gawked openly, or avoided eye contact altogether. Sandor didn't want to be that kind of dickwad; but honestly, he wasn't sure  _ where  _ to look. This man he was about to meet had clearly been through some shite in life. Some  _ serious  _ shite. 

EB made the introductions. “Beric Dondarrion, this is Sandor Clegane, my new hire.”

“Sandor, welcome,” Dondarrion greeted him jovially.

“Glad to be here,” Sandor replied, at the last moment conscientiously choosing to look Beric in his one good eye. When Dondarrion turned his head to chat with EB, Sandor subtly took in the left eye patch, the tennis ball-sized crater on the top right side of Beric’s head, and the puckered scarring that circled his neck. Fucksakes, no wonder nobody in town batted an eye at Sandor!

“We’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel now that you’re here, Sandor,” Beric was saying, snapping Sandor out of his own thoughts. “I’m chomping at the bit to get this place ready!” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. One hand was missing its fingernails. 

“Beric’s been a towner all his life, he runs the Emporium Without Banners shop over on Main Street,” EB explained. Sandor had seen an ad for that shop in the local newspaper over the weekend, where it had boasted a big sale on both smoking paraphernalia and healing crystals.

Beric nodded. “I find as I get older, I have a need for more peace and quiet; I’ve been coming out here to camp so often, to get away from the bustle of town...I finally decided that I might as well set up camp permanently,” he elaborated.

The bustle of town?! Sandor's head jerked back in surprise. “You ever been to King’s Landing?” Sandor enquired with a raised brow. As far as Sandor could tell, living in the town on QI was as peaceful as camping, compared to city life!

“Oh aye, that I have,” Beric asserted. He pointed at his dented cranium. “King's Landing is where I had the tram accident...and the bar brawl.” He indicated the eye patch. Sandor waited, but it seemed the neck scars and missing fingernails were to remain unexplained.

Just before true awkwardness settled upon the men, EB piped up, suggesting they all take a look at the cabinetry specs. “Aye,” Sandor said eagerly, following his new boss to the trailer. Best focus on the task at hand.

Remember how someone had told him that the Isle was populated mostly by pensioners? They'd forgotten to mention the other percentage of residents: a collection of single, male oddballs of a certain age who almost certainly lived a celibate life (either by choice or not). Sandor supposed he fit right in.

***

_ Inclusion _

Within three weeks, Beric's tiny house was completed. Sandor couldn't help but be impressed with the efficiency of the space; Beric had everything he needed inside the 205 square feet of house, including a bathroom and a kitchen. Sandor could see the appeal of not having much in terms of upkeep.

The day Beric moved in, he invited Sandor to come for a dinner of steamed mussels and clams fresh from the estuary. EB was there too (with bread he'd baked in his outdoor stone oven, and some kind of spicy vegetable casserole), and to Sandor's surprise, so was Thoros, fully dressed for once.

"Didn't realize you all knew each other," Sandor remarked. 

"Everyone here knows each other!" EB laughed.

Sandor mostly listened as the other three chattered about island goings-on. Beric and EB began an in depth discussion about something called "QISAR". At Sandor's quizzical expression, EB had enlightened him.

"Quiet Isle Search and Rescue," he explained the acronym. "The squad is made up of volunteers, trained and certified by Lower Riverlands Emergency Services. Training takes place down in Maidenpool. More often than not, we're called out to rescue cats, or wayward goats…," he paused while the other men chuckled over what was surely an inside joke. "But sometimes, folks get themselves into a bit of trouble in the wilderness or the water. We can always use more volunteers; you should think about joining, Sandor."

Sandor got home late that night with a belly full of Trident estuary mussels and rich honey mead that came from the local Old Septry Estate. Stranger greeted him with a yawn and a stretch. Sandor got himself showered and changed for bed, but instead of going to sleep, he opened up his laptop. He Googled both QISAR and LRES, and tried to imagine himself hoisting an angry goat out of a sewer pipe.

***

_ An Unexpected Arrival _

Sandor had only been living on QI for a couple of months when the first bird arrived.

It was early on a Saturday morning. Sandor wasn't one for sleeping in, or even for sleeping much, period, so on weekends he rose at the same time as any other day. He had just gotten his coffee sorted and poured a scoop full of crunchies into Stranger's food dish, but instead of eating, the damn cat screamed at him.

That gave Sandor a start. "Who pissed in your cereal?" he demanded, scowling at Stranger. Sandor made to step away, and Stranger screeched again, heading toward the patio door. Sandor ignored him, and the feline really gave him an earful for that; Sandor gaped in utter bewilderment, and a bit of alarm. Stranger wasn't normally this vocal...was he sick?

"All right, stop yelling you little arsehole, what's your problem?" Sandor asked in a concerned tone, stooping down to check if Stranger was injured or bleeding. The cat sprinted back to the patio doors (not injured or bleeding, Sandor noted), and this time Sandor followed. 

At the door, Stranger hollered up at Sandor once more, and Sandor slid open the door. "What in the bloody hells has got your knickers in such a twist?" he asked, scratching his head. His eyes were quickly drawn to a great big black thing flapping around on the concrete pad.

"Son of Baelor," Sandor swore. Stranger purred loudly, and swiped his furry body against Sandor's leg in gratitude for finally getting the gods-damned message.

The raven, just slightly larger than Stranger, flapped again, raising up enough to reveal that one of its legs was bent at an odd angle. "Fuck me," Sandor cursed again. What do I do with that thing, he thought, put it out of its misery? He looked at the raven, and the raven studied Sandor and Stranger warily, but stayed where it was. It stretched its wide wings and flapped again. It wasn't incapacitated; its wings seemed to be working just fine, and therefore it should be able to find food...it was probably in pain though, and its injury made it vulnerable to infection, or cunning predators.

"Seven fucking hells." The wheels of Sandor's mind spun around; he had brought Stranger to the veterinarian last week for a check up, maybe he would call her for advice, he decided.

In the meantime, he went back to the kitchen and filled a small soup pot with tap water, then grabbed Stranger's bowl of crunchies and brought it all back to the garden. The raven flapped and cawed as Sandor set the food and water down on the pad.

"Shh, easy there," Sandor murmured, backing away to the door. He and Stranger sat on the floor inside the house, watching as the raven did nothing but eyeball the food and water suspiciously. Sandor wasn't a bird expert, but he knew ravens and crows ate just about anything. City crows ate trash, for fuck's sake; would the raven go for the cat food? After a half hour stand off, Sandor gave up and left the raven alone, going back into the kitchen to find his coffee had gone lukewarm. 

He tucked his mug into the microwave and warmed up the coffee, dialling up the veterinary office in town at the same time. He got the vet tech on the line (Seri, she had announced upon answering) and explained the raven situation.

Seri: "Does the bird appear to be in shock?"

Sandor: "Fuck if I know…it was flapping around like a maniac...I put out some water and cat food." He walked out of the kitchen and peered out the back door. "Oh, it's eating now!"

Seri: "Ah, that's a positive sign! Dr Nan should be just finishing up at Swintons' farm, she was helping birth a couple of calves. I'll ask her to swing by your place. In the meantime, I'll contact the wildlife rehab centre and see if they've got space for a raven."

As per Seri's additional instructions, Sandor found a cardboard box, cutting down the sides to just a few inches high. He stuffed it with old linens and paper towelling and placed it down near the bird, next to the food and water dishes. To Sandor's surprise, the raven flapped and hopped its way into the makeshift nest, appearing to make itself at home.

In the hour that Sandor waited for Dr Nan to arrive, Stranger had made a friend. Sandor observed as the cat had slowly inched his way outdoors without causing the injured bird to flap around too much. It kept one eye on Stranger as it ate pellets of cat food. Then, Stranger had flopped down on the pad, rolled onto his back, and tucked his front paws up under his chin, giving the raven lovey blinky eyes...it was gods-damned fucking adorable! Even Sandor had rarely been graced with such a display! The raven made some clicking noises and seemed to relax. Sandor could hear Stranger's loud, contented purring from a dozen feet away.

The front doorbell rang. Finally! Sandor ran to open the door and stood aside as the small but wiry animal doctor crossed the threshold.

"I'll wash up first, if you don't mind," she said by way of greeting. "Been up to my elbows in cow all morning, hehe!" She swiveled her head around until her keen eyes spotted the kitchen sink, then went about her business. Sandor tried to banish the image of cows and elbows from his mind.

"Now where is our avian patient?" Dr Nan asked, drying her hands.

Sandor led Dr Nan through the house and out the back patio doors. The veterinarian had a cheerful, no-nonsense disposition, much like most of her fellow Quiet Islanders. Based solely on her close cropped silver hair and weathered face, Sandor estimated she was well into her seventies, but her energy level told him that she was nowhere near retirement.

She got straight to work; the raven barely had time to squawk before the vet gently folded its great wings and picked the bird up.

"Come stand here, and put your hands over mine," Dr Nan instructed Sandor. He obeyed, not entirely understanding what was happening. "When I take my hands away, you'll hold on firmly, but don't crush the poor thing!"

Sandor nodded, not daring to protest. He held the bird while Dr Nan measured and examined, muttering numbers to herself and reaching into her medical bag. She carefully fashioned and applied a splint to the raven's broken leg. When satisfied with the splint, the vet pulled a digital scale from her bag and told Sandor to set the bird upon it, noting the weight, then proceeded with a barrage of instructions about which medications to give and when. Sandor stared at the vet.

"You want  _ me  _ to medicate the bird?" He asked hesitantly, wondering where Dr Nan was going with this.

"Of course! And you will have to keep her indoors for at least 10 days, to give that bone a chance to set. Once I get back to my office, I'll email you a feeding and medicine schedule."

"Her?? Indoors?? Here??" Sandor spluttered. "Oh no," he shook his head emphatically. "There is supposed to be a wildlife group that takes care of this! I can't look after a fucking raven, I've got a fucking job to go to every day! I'll have bird shite all over my house!" He pointed vehemently at the poor bird, who pooped on the scale to prove Sandor's point.

Dr Nan looked at Sandor sympathetically. "Greater Trident Wildlife Rehabilitation does normally handle cases like this, but there was a fuel spill down in the estuary yesterday, and they've been dealing with the aftermath," she explained with regret. "They've got a full house. Besides, I think she likes you!" The raven quorked softly and blinked at Sandor.

Sandor sighed in defeat. He was being bossed and guilt-tripped by an old lady and a crippled bird! "Fuck me sideways," he muttered grumpily. Stranger chirruped his approval from his spot next to the patio door. "I blame you for this!" Sandor rasped to the cat.

For two weeks, Sandor kept Raven in the house, except for frequent fresh air periods when he would carry her outside in her box nest to enjoy some sunshine and interesting smells. On his work breaks, he drove home to check on her. One lunch time, he walked in to find Stranger and Raven dozing side by side in a sun puddle on the floor, like two black pumpernickel loaves in a baking pan, and Sandor felt a funny, tugging sensation in his chest. He took out his phone and snapped a couple dozen photos then.

Every few days Dr Nan came by to check the broken leg and adjust the medication, and declared that the bird seemed to be healing beautifully under Sandor's care.

By week three, Raven was getting around exceptionally well, flapping and hopping around on her good leg. She was also getting bored. More than once Sandor came home to find his toilet paper roll completely unraveled and shredded to bits; another time, she'd raided the fruit bowl, opening every banana in the bunch until she found one to her liking. Sandor had looked at Stranger accusingly.

"You are supposed to be keeping an eye on her, you lazy arse," he griped; Stranger only yawned in rebuttal.

At that point, consulting with GTWR and Dr Nan, it was decided that Raven was well enough to stay outside during the day. Sandor constructed a multi-level tree/condo structure out of spare plywood and two by fours, with ramps and platforms covered with artificial turf. Both Stranger and Raven quickly claimed favourite spots in the 'tree'. Sandor left the patio awning down during the day for shade, and provided plenty of food and water. Now Raven was free to explore the garden, and perhaps would stay out of mischief.

After four weeks, Raven's broken leg had fully healed. She quorked happily when Dr Nan removed the splint. She walked with a limp and probably would do so for a while, until full strength returned, but Raven was declared fit and free to go. That first night after the splint removal, Sandor didn't call her to come inside the house. After dark, he closed the patio door, feeling more than just a twinge of regret. Was Raven really fit to leave, he wondered? Another, deeper question swelled but didn't quite surface: Was Sandor ready to say goodbye to Raven? Ten minutes later, he heard tapping on the glass. There was Raven, asking to come in for the night. She was healed, but she wasn't ready to leave her friends. Sandor heaved a sigh of relief as he let the bird inside.

Raven stayed on for another month. She was a delight, and Sandor and Stranger both enjoyed her companionship. Their favourite times were sunrise and sunset: the trio would sit out on the patio together, quietly soaking in the golden light. Even Thoros was fond of Raven. Often, he would come to visit with a treat of dehydrated fish for the cat, and a handful of walnut halves for the bird. Sandor and Thoros laughed their arses off watching Raven and Stranger play games of fetch with their assortment of cat toys. 

When Sandor was at home, his door was always open to Raven. And she still slept indoors at night, tucked up inside her old cardboard nest, with Stranger nearby on his easy chair; when Sandor woke in the mornings however, he always found the two of them loafing side by side at the foot of his bed. It was at around this time that Sandor noted a drastic improvement in his own sleep.

***

_ Letting Go _

The first time Raven stayed away from the house for more than a few days, Sandor was beside himself. He could only think the worst: that she had been hit by a car, or attacked by a predator, or eaten something bad and fallen ill. Stranger sensed Sandor's distress and stayed close by, but still Sandor worried. What a horrible, helpless feeling, to care for another being long enough to form such a magical bond, only to have it all come to an end and never know how or why.

Sandor's sleep began to suffer again. During the daytime, he would scan both the skies and the roadsides for signs of Raven. Finally, after several sleepless nights and days of near-obsessive preoccupation, Sandor was beginning to think that life on QI might not be for him, after all. He had caught himself forming attachments all too easily - to people, to bloody animals, to the whole gods-damned place - and Sandor didn't do attachments. One evening, he drove over to EB's place to tell him he was leaving. 

"I'll stay on until you find a replacement for me," Sandor said, pacing in front of a nonplussed EB. "I'm not cut out for island life. I think I'm better off back in the city."

EB stopped Sandor's pacing with the firm grasp of a tense shoulder.

"You can't be replaced," EB told him. "You're needed here. Besides, your QISAR training starts in a few weeks; you're committed." 

Sandor blinked, and his shoulders dropped. He had nearly forgotten about the training. With EB's letter of recommendation, Sandor had registered for the basic certification courses.

EB eyed him keenly. "Come on, have a seat on the porch, and I'll grab us a couple of brews."

Sandor and EB talked into the evening, and when the sky grew black, they silently studied the constellations, unmarred by urban light pollution. This kind of view wasn't possible in the city. It reminded Sandor of his childhood on the farm, but it was a comforting memory, of times when he could be alone and at peace with the stars and nocturnal sounds. He went home that night feeling a little more grounded. Maybe he could get used to life on the Isle, given a little more time; besides, moving again would be a fucking hassle.

The next morning, at home, Raven was on the plywood 'tree' Sandor had built for her, waiting to play with Stranger. It had sunk in, then: the goal had always been to rehabilitate and release. Raven was a wild animal, not a pet. It had been Raven's choice to stay as long as she had, and now that she was ready to be on her own, it was important to let her go, no matter the outcome. Raven went off for increasingly longer periods of time, but although she was making her own way in the world, she never forgot her rescuers. Every so often, just when Sandor believed she was gone for good, Raven would surprise him with a visit as he was walking along the riverbank, or he would find her in the back garden having a roll-about with Stranger.

***

_ The Bird Whisperer _

Sandor was well into his basic search and rescue training. On his way home from his courses in Maidenpool one weekend, Sandor found Netty. He was just off the QI ferry and trucking down the river road when he spotted something struggling in the brush. He pulled over and approached the area slowly, calmly, knowing that an injured animal would be frightened and might even attack. There amongst the riverside brush was a young jackdaw, all tangled up in what looked like a bit of old fishing net. Hence, the name Netty. Sandor knew his bird names were not very original. In the unlikely event that he someday fathered children, he figured he'd best leave the naming up to the mother.

Right there on the side of the road, Sandor took out his pocket knife and very carefully cut away the netting. The bird allowed Sandor's gentle handling, seeming to understand that he only wanted to help her. He hoped that with the net gone, the little jackdaw would be good to go; she was exhausted though, and upon closer inspection, Sandor spotted some wounds caused by the tight net. So, he stuffed some rags into his lunch pail, tucked Netty in, and brought her home.

"We've got to start calling you Bird Whisperer," Dr Nan commented when Sandor called her with the news, and to request a salve for the bird's cuts. "You do seem to attract them!"

Sandor snorted. "Maybe they think I'm a tree," he chuckled.

Netty stayed at Sandor's home to heal. Between Stranger and Sandor though, Stranger was easily the happiest to have a bird around again. Raven had had a loud cawing voice, but she had rarely used it, preferring to communicate in gentle quorks and clicks. But Netty was something else; she demanded almost constant attention, and she asked for it with an incessant sort of screeching, like fingernails scraping on a chalkboard. It got to the point where Sandor had to wear his ear protection (normally reserved for working with loud power tools) around the house. 

The unrelenting noise didn't bother Stranger. The easy-going cat gladly kept Netty company, screeching and all, indoors and out. When out in the garden, she would bring Stranger little gifts of pebbles and feathers in gratitude. Sometimes Sandor would catch the two of them engaged in the world's gentlest wrestling match: both jackdaw and cat lying on their sides, facing each other, Netty kicking her feet and Stranger batting a paw in slow-motion. Sandor took videos of the action to show to his friends, all of whom had apparently been in casual conversation with the veterinarian recently...they had all taken to nicknaming Sandor the Bird Whisperer.

Netty was also quite fond of grooming. She spent hours grooming herself every day, primping and preening until her black feathers gleamed. Then, she would attend to Stranger: the end of his tail twitched blissfully as Netty combed the back of Stranger's neck with her beak, the exact spot he could never reach with his own raspy tongue. But Netty's grooming ambitions didn't stop there, to Sandor's mild chagrin. She had gotten into the fucking weird habit of perching on his head when he settled down to watch TV in the evenings, gently combing through the long, wiry strands at his crown. Although he grumbled at the absurdity of it all, Sandor did find the activity oddly soothing.

The little jackdaw healed quickly and completely, however, she showed no interest in departing from the comfort of Sandor and Stranger's home. She seemed happy in their company, if all of her screeching and play-wrestling and enthusiastic grooming were any indication. Sandor wondered if perhaps he was spoiling Netty, making her life so easy and safe that it discouraged her from setting off in search of her own kind in her proper habitat. He called the Greater Trident Wildlife Rescue to ask their advice on the matter, which resulted in an invitation.

"We happen to have several jackdaws in our care at the moment," a rescue worker named Robbett told Sandor over the phone. "Why don't you bring Netty for a visit? Maybe seeing other jackdaws will spark her interest."

So Sandor perched Netty on his shoulder and made the drive and ferry crossing to the rescue centre, on the north side of the estuary.

"Ah, you must be the man known as The Bird Whisperer," Robbett remarked by way of greeting.

Sandor grunted. "It's just Sandor, actually. Dr Nan has been exaggerating," he grumbled in consternation, although his respect for the spry veterinarian prevented him from  _ truly _ being annoyed with her.

"Nah, I'd embrace the moniker if I were you, it creates an air of mystique," Robbett insisted, his eyes glinting in amusement at the sight of a happily screeching bird perched on the shoulder of an enormous, grouchy hound of a man. 

Robbett proceeded to lead Sandor on a tour of the facility. At any one time it housed dozens of sick, injured and orphaned creatures of all types: furry, feathered, scaled and gilled, and was entirely reliant on volunteers, funding, and the generous donations of wildlife-loving citizens.

"I hope you won't think me pushy, but given your experience with birds, if you had an interest in helping out here, we would definitely welcome that," Robbett ventured. "Even just a few hours per month would make a big difference. We'll even train you!"

Sandor chuckled. He could have used some of that training back when Raven had appeared. He considered Robbett's suggestion. He was nearly through with his training for QISAR; what the fuck else was he doing in his free time? Helping out at the wildlife centre would be productive and educational, he thought...and hells of a lot more interesting on a weekend morning than sitting around watching Thoros trim his fucking hedges.

"Aye, maybe I'll give it a go," he told Robbett as they approached the bird enclosures. Netty got excited; someone was replying to her screeches, someone that looked and sounded a lot like Netty! She launched herself off of Sandor's shoulder, flying to an enclosure that housed a couple of jackdaw fledglings.

Robbett grinned. "Clever bird, you've found Tina and Mina!" He turned to Sandor. "Their nest was found blown out of its tree, abandoned. They hatched here at the centre, and we've been raising them by hand." He opened up the cage door and Netty popped inside, making a gentle chattering noise that Sandor had never heard her make before. She went straight to the fledglings and subjected them to her favourite activity: grooming.

Robbett raised his brows. "Perhaps Netty would also consider volunteering with us?"

***

_ Celebration _

Not only had Sandor begun regularly volunteering some of his free time with the area wildlife rescue, he had also officially joined the ranks of Quiet Isle Search and Rescue. He'd traveled to Maidenpool the several times it had taken to complete the 20 hours of Basic Training, along with his Incident Command System 100 unit and First Aid/CPR. Sandor was now a certified search and rescue volunteer.

To welcome Sandor onto the QISAR team, EB held a casual celebration at his property one balmy Saturday night. It was potluck of course, and Sandor donated a generous supply of ale and honey mead to last the evening. EB had whipped up a refreshing cold tomato soup, and out of his stone oven he had produced an assortment of both yeast breads and flatbreads as well as roasted vegetables from his huge garden. Thoros provided sweets from the town's bakery, and Beric brought fresh fish to pan fry on the spot.

Into the darkening evening, bellies full, the friends traded news and quizzed Sandor on his recent experiences at the wildlife centre. He had returned home from his first visit there without Netty; she had been so happy with the fledglings that Sandor had left her there with them (albeit with some reluctance). Robbett reported that she had found her groove as foster mother, and the young jackdaws were thriving under her attention. Sandor had been donating several hours out of his weekends ever since then, and Netty flew out to greet him each time he arrived on site, screeching on his shoulder as he set about his chores at the centre.

"So you've got an empty nest at the moment," Beric commented with a chuckle, "but I'd be willing to bet my left nut that it's only a matter of time before your next houseguest shows up!"

Sandor barked out a laugh. "I've got no use for your nuts Beric, I'll decline that bet," he said good-naturedly, but through their collective laughter, Sandor mused upon Beric's comment. "To tell you the truth, I fucking miss having a bird around," he admitted. "I think Stranger misses it too. Those damned birds were a pain in the arse, but they were entertaining as fuck, and good company."

EB nodded, looking thoughtful before broaching a question. "Would you ever keep a bird with you once you'd helped them and they were healed and it was time for them to move on?" 

Sandor shook his head. "No, that would go against nature. It's better for them to let them go." Even in Netty's case, staying had been her choice, just as it was her choice to stay at the wildlife centre; and she was free to leave the centre any time, if she chose to do so.

"Hm. Better for you too, really," EB remarked.

Sandor cocked a brow at his boss. "In what way?" he asked. Recalling how anxious he'd been when Raven had left, Sandor wondered at EB's theory.

"Well, it frees you up," EB sat back in his lawn chair and elaborated. "You've done your job, nursed your patient, and to keep nursing them when they've already healed is redundant, unnecessary, like watering the ocean." Beric and Thoros chuckled at the analogy as EB continued. "Sort of like the way we can nurse a grudge, or nurse our resentment, or our pain...For a while, feeding that negativity can seem to help us: it puts a bubble around us, it can protect us from getting hurt again, it can warn us away from bad situations...but eventually there comes a time when nursing the negativity is no longer helpful. It's actually holding us back, going against our nature and our drive to let go and move forward, make progress and grow, live out our purpose. Sometimes we need to let things go, to make room for beautiful things to come." Sandor's boss fell silent, and the other two men took a thoughtful swig of ale.

Well that was fucking deep, Sandor thought. But it did get the wheels of his mind turning...Made him think about how cruelty and neglect had darkened his childhood, and that growing up he'd learned many ways to keep people at arm's length - using fear, then anger, then indifference - to protect himself from harm. He'd come to believe that his face, ruined as it was, made people want to avoid him, which in turn made an easy excuse for Sandor to avoid making attachments. No attachments, no loss, no disappointment. And no joy. He thought about the birds he had helped rehabilitate, how he had grown to care for them emotionally, not just practically. How they had brought him joy, in their way...and how it had saddened him when they eventually left his care, at the same time knowing they were exactly where they needed to be, thanks in large part to him. Yes, he'd felt sadness at the loss of their companionship, but it hadn't broken his heart. It hadn't stopped him wanting to do it all again, given the opportunity. 

Had he been learning to let go and move on? Had he been learning that the world wouldn't fall apart if he gave his best to something, knowing that one day it might change or come to an end? Releasing a bird was one thing; releasing his resentment, his old fears, that was something else. And potentially losing loved ones,  _ human  _ loved ones, well...would he ever be ready and willing to risk that much?

Beric picked up his ukelele and plucked at the strings idly, until he settled on some chords. He began singing:

"Yellow bird, up high in banana tree

Yellow bird, you sit all alone like me

Did your lady friend leave the nest again?

Oh how very sad, makes me feel so bad

You can fly away, in the sky away

You're more lucky than me"

EB picked up the first verse, and Beric provided harmony in the chorus. Thoros sang the second verse, but at the repeat of the chorus, even Sandor joined in with his baritone. With a raucous flourish, they ended the song…

"Yeeeeeellooowwwww birrrrrrd!!"

Sandor had always thought he would never really have friends, didn't need them. But sitting round the fire that night, he knew he'd been living a lie. He thought he had come to QI in search of solitude and isolation; instead, he'd gotten the opposite, and it was exactly what he needed.

***

_ Present Day _

Sandor shook himself out of his trip down memory lane. Bobby B, the father pheasant, waddled over and accepted a bit of corn out of his hand. He had been the first to turn up out of the blue about three months ago. Sandor had put out some corn for the bird, and a few days later, Bobby B had returned with a female friend (Thoros had suggested the name Bessie, and it stuck).

Bobby B and Bessie mated. A lot. Very openly, in Sandor's garden; quite often, right in front of him. Sometimes, he imagined they were taunting him: Look, big ugly human! We get all the bird-on-bird action we want, while you're stuck shaking hands with the milkman! Coo coo!

"Bloody fucking birds, can you believe that?!" he'd ask Stranger irritably, gesticulating at their shameless enthusiasm. Stranger would blink in sympathy, then continue to avidly watch the pheasants coupling.

Soon, Bessie stopped coming around. At first, Sandor worried that something had happened to her. Bobby B was still there though, and didn't seem too distressed. So Sandor waited, and sure enough, Bessie reappeared after a while looking for corn, only to vanish again for hours on end. One day Sandor watched where Bessie went. Hot on her waddling trail, he discovered her hidey-hole amongst a clump of ferns in his own front garden, and inside was a nest full of a dozen perfect eggs. 

"Well well, all your fucking around paid off," Sandor murmured proudly. Bessie cooed in agreement. It appeared that Sandor would soon be a pheasant uncle! He pulled out his phone and Googled "pheasant life cycle", did some mental calculations, and marked off a series of days in his calendar that he predicted would be hatching days.

Just over three weeks later, Sandor and Stranger had been enjoying the morning sunshine out on the patio, when Bessie and Bobby B paraded their newly-hatched fuzzy brood into the garden. They had to be the gods-damned cutest little things Sandor had ever laid eyes on, all fluffy and striped, peeping and stumbling in an obedient row behind their strutting parents...He took about five hundred photos of the adorable little bastards and showed them off to his work friends, who all gave him congratulatory slaps on the back. "Way to go, Bird Whisperer," they teased.

Sandor was pleased. Bessie and Bobby B were excellent parents, and seemed to have their brood well under their watchful wings; but nature can be harsh, and the circle of life doesn't make exceptions for cute little chicks. One morning, Sandor counted only eight babies in the garden parade. He scanned the yard, but didn't spot the missing four. He inspected the ferns where the nest was, and they weren't there. He searched inside the house, the garage, under his truck and questioned all of his neighbours, but the chicks had vanished.

"Could have been stoats that got them, or maybe owls," Thoros suggested.

Sandor cursed. "Fucking hells." He felt terrible. He had assumed the pheasants would do just fine without his interference, and somehow it hadn't even occurred to him that the chicks might get snatched up by predators here so close to the house! During his work breaks that day, Sandor searched up some building instructions for a raised coop, picked up materials on the way home, and got straight to work.

He built the coop next to the garage, and made sure the pheasants were safely inside after sundown each night; then in the mornings at dawn, Sandor let them out and the birds were free to roam. No more chicks were lost, but Sandor couldn't help admonishing himself for not having thought of providing an enclosure sooner.

Now the babies were around six weeks old, and no longer babies. They had lost their soft downy feathers and were somewhere in the 'awkward teenage' phase, slender and leggy and still a little clumsy. They were still a lot of fun to watch, squabbling over choice patches of grass when out foraging together. Stranger maintained a respectful distance from the chicks, sensing that the parents would be defensive should he get too close. All the same, the cat liked to keep a watchful eye over the youngsters. 

Here was the trouble: Sandor had some major backcountry training coming up with QISAR that required he be away from home for a few days, several times in the next few months. He didn't want to burden someone else with the pheasants' care. In any case, his garden was not a sufficient space for such creatures, and without neighbour fences, they were wandering up and down the street making a royal fucking mess and getting into mischief. There was the potential for vehicular tragedies as well; the young ones were bigger now, but were not yet strong flyers...In a matter of a few more weeks, they would start to make their own way in the world, and Bessie would be laying a new clutch of eggs. There was no way Sandor was going to be able to keep up with all of that pheasant-ness; he had decided that he needed to find them a more appropriate habitat. So Sandor had asked EB if he would be willing to take the pheasants, and his boss had happily agreed.

EB had a big property inland, with lots of rolling knolls, paddocks and watering holes where he allowed his small assortment of cows, pigs and ducks (which he kept for pets, not for food - EB lived a vegan lifestyle) to range freely. The pheasants would probably thrive there, and certainly wouldn't end up in anyone's roasting pan.

Not that Sandor would have eaten them, obviously, even though he was most definitely not a vegan! Except for once per week. A few months ago, EB had finally convinced Sandor to go meat-free just one day a week...it was good for his health, his boss claimed, plus it would help offset his environmental footprint or some shite. So, Sandor didn't consume any animal products on Wednesdays. Hump Day. No-Hump Day, more like, Sandor thought grumpily. Sandor didn't get to hump anything or anyone on Wednesdays, or any other day for that matter: So, he thought, let's make No-Hump Day even more depressing. Let's make it Vegan No-Hump Day. The problem was, Sandor actually enjoyed the food he ate on Wednesdays. At the beginning of each week, EB always emailed recipes for Sandor to try, and they always turned out fucking delicious. It was bloody infuriating how EB was always right about everything!

Anyway…

Sandor once again reigned in his meandering thoughts and steered them back to the pheasant family. He had borrowed a large dog crate from Dr Nan, and all he had to do was lure the birds into it. Shouldn't be too difficult. Pheasants (these ones, at any rate) weren't exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer. One time, the neighbour two doors down had called to report that the whole crew were 'dumpster diving' inside her compost bin, with Bobby B standing guard. Sandor had gone over with a bag of mealworms and led them back home, leaking a trail of worms, like some kind of beefy, tattooed Pied Piper.

He set up the crate, bedding it down with a good layer of fresh straw. Inside he attached a couple of water feeders, and food trays with the pheasants' favourites: corn, peas, cabbage and mealworms. Then he propped the door open and waited. The birds circled the crate suspiciously and at a distance; this wasn't their usual coop, and this wasn't their usual time to enter an enclosure. But soon the scent of delicious treats became irresistible. Bessie led her brood single file into the crate, and after only a few moments of hesitation, Bobby B brought up the rear. 

Sandor closed up the crate and gently hoisted it into the back of his pickup truck, stabilizing it with some bungee cords. The drive to EB's place was smooth and short; EB greeted Sandor with a wave as the truck pulled to a stop. Together, the two men carried the crate out into an unoccupied paddock full of clover and other wildflowers, and opened up the door. Cautiously, the pheasants filed out one by one, wondering at the sudden wide-openness and lured by the promise of succulent greenery and juicy bugs.

***

_ Rescue Call _

A clear, windless dusk began to settle over QI. Sandor carried his snack over to the sofa and eased himself down into the cushions, snatching up the remote control and scrolling through the new arrivals on Netflix. Every two minutes, he had the urge to stick his head outside to check on the pheasants; it felt bloody weird that they were gone. Once again, the absence of creatures to care for felt like too much quiet and too little responsibility. He shook off the loneliness. Stranger was here, his loyal roomie, curled up on his easy chair...and Sandor would be able to visit the birds at EB's place, every single day if he really wanted to. He figured he'd go about once a week. Okay, maybe twice.

Sandor returned his focus to deciding what to watch. He had already binged all eight seasons of Game of Thrones and its spinoff, House of the Dragon, and so he considered his hankering for period dramas of questionable historical accuracy fully satiated. He scanned the movies and finally selected a space western entitled 'Prospect'.

In the middle of the opening credits, Sandor's phone buzzed. He paused the show, looked at his phone: Quiet Isle Search and Rescue. 

QISAR: Woman stuck in tree at Old Septry Estate. No truck access. Team tied up with water rescue, can you handle tree lady?

Sandor: Affirmative. En route.

Stranger lifted his sleepy head and peered curiously at the big man. "Got called in," Sandor explained, waving his phone at the cat. "A drunk lady climbed a tree and now she can't get down."

Stranger grunted at the folly of humans and went back to sleep, and Sandor headed to his truck.

Upon arriving at the estate, Sandor learned that the subject in question was visiting with a group for a girls' long weekend. They had been out for a stroll, when the subject climbed a tree and became stuck. The subject's companions had run back to the lodge in a panic, but as of now were apparently drowning their anxiety in the lounge.

Sandor trailed the concierge down the gravel footpath until they stopped at a bend, right in front of an exceptionally old, twisted sentinel tree, broad and tall for this region. There weren't many sentinels on the Isle; this one looked like it had stood guard for at least a few centuries. It had a proliferation of branches almost all the way down its thick trunk. No wonder it had been easy to climb up. Not quite so easy coming back down though, as many spontaneous climbers usually discovered.

A high sweet song drifted down through the night air: "Like a bird on the wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free". Sandor smirked, his head torch beaming upwards into the tree as he raised his gaze to where the singing was coming from. 

"Evening," he shouted up casually, and the singing stopped.

A young woman's voice replied. "Hello?"

"Cheers. Name's Clegane, I'm from Quiet Isle Search and Rescue. You've been out climbing, I see." Sandor waited, analyzing the situation. The gibbous moon shone brightly in the clear sky. That would be helpful. From the ground, at the moment, he could make out a figure high amongst the sentinel's branches, but no details. The moonlight cast her shape in a silhouette, and his head lamp didn't quite reach her from this far away. A branch creaked, and the woman cleared her throat delicately.

"Yes, well, we were out walking after dinner, and all of a sudden the wind came up and blew Jeyne's best silk scarf right off and into the trees!" She paused, and the branch creaked again. "It didn't seem so very high when I started climbing, until I got up here...I did get the scarf though!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Um...are you here to help me down?"

"Aye," Sandor nodded, although he doubted she could see him very well. "Think you can stay perched for a few more minutes? I've got to come up to you safely with a harness - slow and steady, like a sloth."

"Alright."

Sandor dropped his gear onto the ground at his feet and proceeded to outfit himself with the climbing harness and extra helmet. During his time as a volunteer with QISAR, he'd been involved in a couple of serious rescues, and more than a few odd ones; this one fit somewhere in between, he thought. As he worked to secure the buckles and clasps, the woman began again to hum her little tune, no doubt to keep herself calm and busy as she waited for Sandor to reach her.

Ordinarily, a tree rescue would involve either a truck and ladder or a pulley, and a team of two or three volunteers; but the location of the tree and its tangle of branches prohibited those methods. Also, this weekend's other on-call volunteers were out on a different emergency, so that made this a one-man job. No problem. Sandor was a strong fucker, and agile for a big man...he could manage a little lady stuck in a tree for fuck's sake. 

At last Sandor stepped up onto the sturdy lower branches of the sentinel and looped two long straps around the trunk, as high up as he could reach, and latched the ends to his harness. His cleats dug into the tree's bark with a crunch.

"On my way up," he called, interrupting the singing. "What's your name?"

"Sansa," the woman answered.

"Hang in there, Sansa!" Sandor shouted heroically.

"Very funny," Sansa sniffed; Sandor barked out a chuckle as he continued his ascent. He was in a good mood, despite being called away from his solo Netflix and chill, and his big bowl of salted caramel popcorn. There were surely worse ways to spend an evening than by playing the white knight carrying a damsel in distress to safety, he reasoned.

Sansa had resumed her singing: "If I have been unkind, I hope that you can let it go by...if I have been untrue, I hope you know it was never to you". Sandor smiled as he inched his way up. He knew the song, and the girl had a pretty voice. She sounded young: adult young, not child young. He briefly wondered what she looked like, but quickly banished the question. Irrelevant. She was a person in need of help. Soon he would see her relieved face; and she would see his scarred one. As ever, he steeled himself against the inevitable reaction. Quiet Islanders were used to him, but Sansa was definitely not from around here.

What the fuck does it matter? He thought, scoffing to himself. Once this little bird was out of her tree, she would fly off on her merry way, and whether his ugly mug left her with nightmares after this, would be none of his concern.

A pair of dangling feet clad in buff-and-brown saddle oxfords appeared in front of Sandor's face, and he stopped climbing. How in the Seven Hells had she managed to get up this high in those things? He craned his neck back, shining his head torch onto the shoes' owner. She quickly shut her eyes against the bright light and grimaced.

"Sorry," Sandor apologized and swiftly reached up to adjust his lamp. He shimmied up a couple more feet and secured his position before assessing the subject. Sansa was indeed a young woman. A beautiful young woman. Quite possibly the most captivatingly beautiful young woman Sandor had ever laid eyes upon. Above the saddle oxfords she was dressed in a slim pair of indigo blue jeans, high in the waist, and a simple crew neck sweater. The colour was dark green, and it accentuated her long auburn hair, which was wound into a thick plait and draped over one slender shoulder. Warm enough attire for an evening walk, but not for sitting in a tree after dark. She didn't appear to be shivering, though. Not hypothermic, then. Good. Sandor returned his studious gaze to her face. Thanks to his dimmed head torch, she didn't have to squint; he peered into large round eyes of ocean blue, and he felt a bizarre lurching sensation in his guts. Behind Sansa and the sentinel, the moon shone through the branches onto Sandor. 

"Hello, birdie," he rasped in as confident a tone as he could muster, confronted with such a fair maiden as this.

"Hello, sloth man," Sansa replied. She looked him right in the face and smiled, sighing with relief. "I am very glad to meet you, Mr Clegane!"

Sandor blinked at her fucking dazzling, heart-stopping smile. "It's Sandor," he muttered. He cleared his throat, as well as the fairy sparkles from his mind. "Any injuries?"

Sansa held up her right hand. "I've broken a nail." He noted the jagged diagonal of her middle fingernail and suppressed a snort. He reached into one of his many vest pockets, pulled out a Band-Aid, and gently applied to Sansa's broken nail.

"Dizziness? Nausea?" he continued. "Did you hit your head at all?" Sansa shook her head no. Either the alcohol had worn off, or she hadn't been drinking much to begin with. Sandor did detect a very faint smell of wine, but mostly he noticed the combined scents of vanilla and rose (probably her perfume) and tree sap (for obvious reasons). 

"Right. So what I'm going to do now is get you harnessed up, and then I'll be carrying you back down to the ground piggyback style," Sandor explained. "Ready?"

"Ready Freddie," Sansa nodded.

"It's  _ Sandor _ ," he reminded her, cocking an eyebrow in mock annoyance.

"Nothing rhymes with Sandor," Sansa complained imperiously.

Sandor grunted. "And I thank the bloody gods for that." He secured the spare helmet to Sansa's head, then began the painstaking process of first tethering her to himself via shoulder harness and extender straps, then guiding her legs into a seat harness, and finally helping her to ease off of her perch and around onto his broad back like a backpack. He instructed her to hold tight to his shoulders while he tightened the fastenings between them and she obeyed. Where her delicate fingers gripped, the nerve endings under his skin went haywire and he could feel himself flush with heat. Fucking concentrate, Clegane, he admonished himself, or we'll both be needing an extraction. At last, inch by inch, Sandor completed the rescue, and all feet returned to solid ground. 

The concierge had sent a staff member to the site with a golf cart to bring both rescuer and rescuee back to the lodge. They rode the short distance largely in silence, Sansa humming, Sandor jotting down notes for his report. At the lodge they disembarked, but Sansa didn't go inside immediately.

"You're very brave," she turned to Sandor, clasping her hands over her midsection. "I don't quite know how to thank you." Those blue eyes of hers were locked onto his face. He had the very foreign urge to ask her to take a selfie with him, so he could always look into that ocean blue.

Instead, Sandor shrugged. "You just did," he rasped matter-of-factly. He'd done his job and everyone was still alive, that's all there was to it.

"It doesn't seem sufficient," Sansa continued, still staring intently.

Sandor's neck started to tingle, and he stood very still. "It doesn't?"

Sansa shook her head slowly, hitting him once again with that smile that put the most spectacular meteor showers to shame.

His gods-damned lungs compressed, he saw stars, and everything about Sandor's life changed. 

Well, maybe not  _ everything _ ...

***

_ Epilogue, Seven months later… _

Sandor gave the chickpea and lentil curry a stir and turned the heat down to a simmer. The patio door was wide open, and he could hear Sansa's high sweet voice as she sang out in the back garden. Sandor whistled along, brushing some melted non-dairy buttery spread over the warm flatbreads. It was Vegan Wednesday; Hump Day.

That's right,  _ Hump Day _ .

Sandor grinned wickedly in anticipation. Years ago, some dumb fuck had told him that he looked a fright when he smiled, which had contributed to his habit of smiling less and scowling more. But Sansa said she liked his smile very much; claimed it was a major turn-on. Well, who was he to argue? People liked what they liked, and whatever his birdie liked, his birdie would get. He smiled a lot when Sansa was around. He couldn't fucking help it.

And it just so happened that Sansa was around a lot. The day after the tree top rescue, Sansa and Sandor had dined together at the estate. It was the final night of her girls' weekend, but she had insisted on thanking him with a dinner for two. They'd easily found things to talk about; Sandor showed her a photo of Stranger, and she'd nearly lost her mind.

"He's sooo handsome," Sansa had gushed. "I love him!"

He had also told Sansa a bit about his experiences with Raven, Netty, and the pheasants.

Shaking her head, she'd said, "You really have a way with birds...even flightless ones," and they'd had a good chuckle at that.

At the end of the evening, the two of them had exchanged numbers. Sandor was sceptical that anything would come of it. Sansa was likely just being polite; she would probably change her phone number as soon as she got home, he'd thought wryly. However, the next morning, Sandor got a big surprise: Sansa had texted him to say how much she had enjoyed spending time together, and that she looked forward to keeping in touch. Then later in the day, Raven came to the garden, and she'd brought him a sentinel cone. He thought that was an interesting coincidence...Sandor wasn't one for believing in signs, but he got chills just the same.

Sandor and Sansa did keep in touch regularly while she completed the last bit of post-baccalaureate training for her Nurse Practitioner designation. Before long, they found themselves talking almost daily, and things seemed to be taking a decidedly romantic turn.

Many, many times during those months of long-distance contact, Sandor had wondered what the fuck Sansa could possibly want with a bloke like him. Surely there were plenty of younger, better looking, more successful men out there to capture her attention. He'd even said so aloud, but Sansa had laughed.

"The men I meet are all self-absorbed egomaniacs who are only interested in armpieces, not real relationships. That, or they're nearing retirement age, and my cut off is 50," she'd assured him. Much to Sandor's relief, he fell well below that limit. She listed to Sandor exactly what it was about him that she found so worthy of attention and admiration, and eventually, he chose to believe her.

When Sansa earned her designation, she invited Sandor to attend the reception at White Harbor University. He took a week's leave and went, of course; they became intimate with each other for the first time that week, and began planning,  _ really  _ planning, how they could spend their future together.

Sansa revealed then that she had already applied for a position at the medical clinic on Quiet Isle. The clinic was only able to offer her a point five for the time being, but it came with the promise of increased hours after six months to a year. Sandor offered to help look for a cottage in town that she could rent; she had beamed at him with her dazzling smile and told him she would love that. They agreed to take things slowly. What was the rush? Life was just getting started. 

Now here she was and they were living in the moments, getting to know each other in every way, learning each other's likes and dislikes...

"Sandor…"

Yeah...he loved the way Sansa said his name...especially when they were together at night. And sometimes first thing in the morning before breakfast.

" _ Sandor… _ "

Sansa was spending more nights at Sandor's place than at her own nowadays. She had wanted to keep the sleepovers for the weekends initially, but lately it wasn't taking much to convince her to stay with him during the week as well. She might be amenable to staying over tonight, Sandor nodded confidently.

"SANDOR!"

Shit! Sandor turned the stove burner to low, and scrambled out of the kitchen.

His long legs brought him quickly to the patio door. "Little Bird?" he rasped. His concerned eyes found Sansa, standing stock-still, struggling to balance a large, yellow-crested and beat-up looking bird perched on her head.

"Not really," she quipped in reply to his question.

Thoros appeared from next door, half naked as usual, his stupid fucking topknot covered up with a garish pink straw fedora. "Now that's a big cockatoo," he commented, identifying the bird.

"That's what she said," Sandor and Sansa muttered humorlessly in unison. The cockatoo squawked sadly, and fussed at its sparse feathers. It looked like the bird had been plucking itself - maybe due to mites, or stress - Sandor would have to call Dr Nan.

"Fucking hells," Sandor cursed. "How the fuck did you manage to fly?" he asked the poor disheveled thing. "I'll get it a banana, don't move," he told Sansa, and she grimaced in reluctant acquiescence. 

Sandor returned with the fruit in time to see Stranger working his magic: he had rolled onto his back at Sansa's feet, exposing his fuzzy belly; the cockatoo tilted its head and eyed the cat with interest, then gingerly scrambled down Sansa's long hair onto her forearm. The bird cooed; Stranger chirped, and gave his best slow blink and bunny paws. Thunder and lightning crashed inside Sandor's brain, and it finally dawned on him who the  _ real  _ Bird Whisperer of Quiet Isle was…

Don't worry cat, Sandor smiled down at his feline companion, your secret is safe with me.

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 🌻💛


End file.
